


A Rat in the Walls

by TwinIvoryElephants



Category: Jojo Rabbit (2019)
Genre: Antisemitism, Nazi Germany, Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:07:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24017983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwinIvoryElephants/pseuds/TwinIvoryElephants
Summary: Elsa thinks about her time in hiding.
Relationships: Jojo Betzler & Elsa Korr
Kudos: 27





	A Rat in the Walls

Inside the walls of Inga’s room were surprisingly clean, Elsa thought. She had enough time to go over every inch of dusty wood, to strain her eyes trying to read the forbidden books Rosie hadn’t the will to let burn. There was hardly any light, but Elsa was used to that. After years trapped in varying depths of darkness, she imagined herself to almost have grown the ability to see in the dark—cat’s eyes, bright and fierce. She hadn’t, of course, but it kept her mind busy to think of frivolous things. For a little while, at least.

Clean meant more space. That was a good thing, _always_ a good thing, but it also meant less to look at, less to toy with. In some of the places she’d been stashed away, there were smudges of dirt or grime caked on the walls, remnants of years of neglect. Those she could pick at with her overlong, ragged fingernails—claws, she thought grimly—as a way of entertaining herself throughout the long hours. Other times, she stared at cracks in the ceiling and thought. 

Elsa did a lot of thinking. And sleeping, when she could.

Inga’s room was the best hiding place she’d been in yet, and Rosie’s kindness was a definite contributor. The clothes she gave her were big, warm, and devoid of holes. She gave her bread and never treated her like an animal. Those were things Elsa never took for granted.

Elsa didn’t know what to think of her boy, Johannes, though. She’d been hidden in houses with boys and girls her age and younger—members of Hitler’s child army—before. They stomped around and yelled and laughed with their parents who were hiding her like a ghost. She could hear puzzle pieces clatter and glasses clink, birthdays celebrated and games played, while she stayed huddled in the dark. All along, Elsa would think bitterly about how those laughs would curdle if the son or daughter heard about his or her parents’ secret. How the angelic child would disappear, replaced by a monster with pitiless eyes and a mind full of animal cunning. A Jew-hating mind.

Jojo was different. For one thing, he was young. Young enough to be saved, maybe. Elsa was careful, though. Even when she acted cocky, acted friendly, inside she was careful. Wary. Jojo figured himself a zealot, a true soldier for Hitler, but she’d seen such people. She’d heard them, been close enough to smell them on occasion. But she was lucky—she’d never had to face them. Not since she’d first escaped her parents’ fate, years ago, at the train station. 

But it was better not to remember.

Telling Jojo stories was a good way to distract herself, too. Elsa told him of horns and Jewish lust for gold, that before she was hidden away she eagerly mixed gentile blood into her and her family’s matzo.

“What does it taste like?” he’d asked her. His eyes were narrowed with disgust, but Elsa detected a glimmer of fascination. He was perched on the chair, pencil hovering over his notebook.

“I forget,” Elsa sighed, shaking her head. “It’s been so long.”

“Well, I won’t let you drink _my_ blood,” said Jojo primly. “So don’t even think about it.”

“Believe me, I wouldn’t,” said Elsa, screwing up her face. “Your blood is tainted.”

Jojo sat up, indignant. “No, it isn’t! It’s pure German blood!” He thumped his chest for emphasis. “It’s—”

“Redder than the reddest rose, yes, yes. I’ve heard it.” Elsa waved her hand. “That’s not what I mean. Children’s blood is best. _Young_ children. You’re too old.”

“Ah.” Jojo gave a knowing nod. “Understandable.” He took a moment to carefully write in his notebook before looking up. “Tell me more.”

“Let me think,” Elsa said. 

In some of the places she had stayed, there were rats. Back then, she slept more fitfully than ever, because the minute she closed her eyes she could feel them scrabbling through her hair. Just thinking about it made her want to shudder, but she stayed still.

“When we’re kept in the dark,” she began slowly, “we begin to grow claws to fend off our enemies.”

“Like what? Roaches?”

“No, _dummkopf_. Aryans. We Jews are friends with roaches.” She smiled at him. It was a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “And rats.”

“Claws aren’t very effective against German weapons,” said Jojo, looking skeptical. “No wonder you’re all gone.”

Elsa felt a stab in her belly. Her smile dropped from her face. The surprisingly fresh, painful ache in her chest was soon replaced by a dully simmering anger. She wanted to hurt him. She wanted to hurt the insolent, depraved little boy in front of her because _how dare he talk about her people like that?_ When would she ever get the chance to hurt someone who spouted such evil things again?

It was too easy to think about causing him pain. Elsa could feel some part of her mind, some bitter part grown hard, ever-calculating. _He’s a cripple,_ she thought. _A cripple with a bad leg, and a little boy._ In times like this, when his insults bit deep, that fact loomed large in her mind. She may be a Jew, but she was able-bodied and tall and stronger than the Aryan in front of her. 

If their roles were reversed—if she was a crippled Jewish child and he an almost full-grown (if malnourished) Aryan adult—would Jojo be so kind to her?

Elsa knew the answer already. She’d lived too long like a rat in the walls to think any different. No gentile had ever given her cause to.

Elsa was so lost in her silent anger that she hardly noticed when Jojo’s hand touched hers. He’d slid from his seat and sat down in front of her. When she looked up, eyes flashing, he flinched just a bit before resuming his little-boy posturing.

 _You don’t scare me,_ his uplifted chin said.

 _Yes, you do,_ said his big blue eyes. _Just a little._

“Let me see your hand,” ordered Jojo. He wasn’t very convincing. He knew he had crossed some sort of line.

Then he crossed another when Elsa obeyed. Their fingers touched—Jojo’s pink and still soft with the roundness of childhood, Elsa’s pale and bony and somehow aged. She had the fingers of a grandmother, she thought wryly. How had she gotten so old so fast?

Jojo gently pulled her hand up to his face, studying her fingernails. “They’re long,” he observed, “but they’re not claws.”

“Careful,” Elsa said tonelessly, “I might scratch you with them.”

Jojo made a noise of affirmation. He studied one fingernail after the other.

“You’re breaking the law, you know,” Elsa said. “What would your precious Hitler say?”

“This is for the sake of science,” said Jojo pointedly. Elsa watched him. Unwittingly, as his careful inspection went onward, she began to smile. _What a clumsy little boy you are,_ she thought to Jojo, watching his determined eyes, the endearing tilt of his head. _But you’re gentle._

When was the last time someone had been so gentle to her? She couldn’t remember. Or maybe remembering was too painful. 

It was easy to get those two things confused. 

“Are you going to check my feet, too?” Elsa asked.

Jojo smiled at her. “No,” he said. “Everyone knows Jews have smelly feet.”

Elsa laughed. She wiped away a few hot tears brimming in her eyes. “Of course,” she replied. “How could I forget?”


End file.
